From the Raven's Perch
by Kuznechik
Summary: A stranger comes to the Zone to make a living but finds much more.


ONE

It was far outside Rostok when he stopped. Pavel Voronov had searched for artifacts the entire morning, exploring as much as he searched, as each part of the Zone was still new to him. The noontime sun was already high and the heat bore down on him heavily. He had just found an incredible curiosity, namely, a village buried up to its roofs. Only the attic windows and chimneys poked out from under the earth. Grass had already grown over the dirt and age had withered and splintered the wood. It gave the impression of a place frozen, and literally buried, in time.

Pavel Igorevich Voronov was had arrived in the Zone just two weeks earlier. Originally he was from Nizhny Tagil. Interest and a family better off than most allowed him to go to a military school and eventually join the army as an officer. Eventually he was stationed outside Moscow and came to know the capital as his home. But listlessness and a sense of his own mediocrity plagued him during his service and he soon wanted it to end. Thankfully, due to thrift and spare personal habits, he had enough money saved to give him options.

He had only heard of the Zone in passing, in the fantastic and almost certainly embellished tales of Stalkers on the internet or by word of mouth. No news came out of it and it was an afterthought in the river of issues and commentary that governed the relationship between Russia and Ukraine. And yet, as he wasted his days in a Moscow apartment, it beckoned to him. There was something amazing about it that he couldn't express in his own words.

Just months after his term of service with the Army ended, he announced to his family that he was going to Ukraine for a security job. His parents were puzzled, but their Pasha had always been on top of things and wasn't one to throw his life away on a whim. And so, with a few reservations, they wished him well as he boarded the train for Kiev.

He'd carried his life savings with him in cash, sown into secret compartments in his clothes and luggage. By some strange quirk, the currency of the Zone was rubles. It was one less barrier to get over, as he wouldn't have to explain changing a rather large sum of money from Russian rubles to Ukrainian hryvinia. Through rather shady dealings, he got an old Makarov and some ammunition. Clothes and protective equipment were easier to find. His biggest purchase was a Kevlar vest with ammunition pouches. He also bought a gas mask and a VDV Afghan coat. Lastly, though it served no practical use, he got an old Soviet ushanka with a metal red star still decorating the front.

All of it he stuffed into a suitcase as he headed north to Chernobyl. Getting past the Cordon that surrounded the Zone would be the biggest challenge. Almost nothing save military convoys and heavily guarded government vehicles went in. He felt very much the hapless foreigner as he wandered through the villages near the Cordon, asking if there were any who knew where stalkers entered the Zone. It was foolish and he knew it. But then, a miracle. In the waning hours of the night in a deserted bar, he was told of a group about to enter the Zone. Experienced stalkers willing to take a newcomer along. By morning the next day, he was sitting round a fire with other rookies, just a stone's throw away from Sidorovich's bunker. The group pressed on, past the railway embankment and into the Garbage. He had a few close shaves with anomalies, walking a little too close to what seemed to be only a playful breeze. One of the more experienced stalkers, hoping to teach him to be more careful, threw handful of dirt into a vortex anomaly that Pavel had just barely missed. The winds suddenly howled, spinning violently and lifting the dirt upwards until it exploded with a frightening pop. The old stalker walked on, adding in a matter of of fact voice that "it can do that to people too."

Two days after the Corodn was breached, they arrived in Rostok. The group split up, each member saying goodbyes and wishing the newcomer good luck. Pavel Igorevich was alone again, and disturbingly unaware of what to do next. Rostok was a sprawling, semi-abandoned shantytown that had more in common with a Siberian lead mine than the Zone he was expecting. What it did offer was a place to spend money. The barkeep ran a brisk trade in weapons, ammunition, food, and any miscellaneous gear that a Stalker might need. Pavel complimented the Makarov with a folding stock AK-74 and seven magazines of ammunition. While he felt a little more authentic making conversation with a rifle slung on his back, it was still a little short of his expectations. The stalkers at the bar had a litany of horror stories, most of questionable authenticity, that they could recite by heart once they were drunk. A million and one schemes to get rich were discussed and debunked each day to the sound of chattering gunfire in the distance and the eerie howls and death rattles of mutants.

Pavel did make some friends with the Duty personnel who frequented the Bar when off duty. The Dutiers laughed uproariously when they found out that the soft-spoken young man who had joined the regulars of the Bar was once a Lieutenant in the Russian Army. All those who knew greeted him with "Yes sir, Comrade Lieutenant", even old, grizzled Sergeant Plichko. Each night they swapped stories of their time in the military with Pavel over the dusty old bar tables.

"Can't believe I'm getting this old! I was a green recruit when independence was declared. You know, we were wearing those Ushankas for years after the Soviets folded it all up. The last one I remember seeing used was in '96 practically. Hell, the one you have might even be mine!" said Plichko one night.

Though the atmosphere of the bar was welcoming, the cost of staying was prohibitive. A meal cost a fortune and paying to sleep in the ravaged warehouses and basements of Rostok was not appealing. With over half the money he brought gone, Pavel Igorevich needed to head out. Stalkers occasionally stopped by the bar to sell artifacts, exchanging them for thousands of rubles apiece. With all his supplies gathered, he decided to try his luck at artifact hunting. A few of the regulars offered tips on where to look the night before he left, once again telling incredible tales of gore and glory that only the Zone and inebriated Stalkers can provide. The Duty sentries walked him a hundred yards outside the southern perimeter and he was off.

The Zone was beautifully calm in the early dawn. Once past the dead trees with corpses hanging off them and the other horrors surrounded the road into Rostok, it was tranquil and natural. Pavel Igorevich headed west, away from the Garbage and its industrial ruins, and more deeply into the forests and meadows that seemed so inviting. Just over the tops of the trees he could still see the high roofs and catwalks of what must be the Wild Territory, with their broken windows and exposed metal still shining if the light caught them the right way.

He walked and walked, enjoying the scenery as the dawn gave way into morning. He hadn't found a single artifact, nor did he know what they truly looked like aside from brief glances at the bar. A little after noon and a good dozen kilometers away from Rostok, he'd found the buried village. The sun shined brightly through the trees, casting patches of light and shadow on the grass. Birds sang and fluttered from branch to branch. Pavel took off his pack and put down the Kalashnikov that he'd been carrying vigilantly since he left the bar. The forest seemed utterly safe. He leaned up against the slanted roof of a buried cottage and rested.  
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End file.
